


do what you always do

by celestexists



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Pennywise dies for good in Chapter One, Character Study, Coming of Age, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Slash, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:20:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25373791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestexists/pseuds/celestexists
Summary: All the shit that doesn’t make it in Richie’s summer experience essay.Or, Richie tricks himself and the other Losers into talking about feelings.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier & Everyone
Kudos: 51





	do what you always do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mayerwien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/gifts).



> To May. Surprise! [insert red balloon emoji here]
> 
> In this AU, they defeat Pennywise for good in 1989. Takes place right after the last confrontation with It in August, and diverges from canon thereon in. Sorry Bill but we’re saying “it’s summer” at least one more time.
> 
> Title from IT (2017), when Stan tells Richie: “Do what you always do. Start talking.”

Time stopped when they entered the well house. Richie knows this because when they get out, it’s still the same cheerful, blue skies above them, not a cloud out of place. When he grabs Eddie’s wrist, his Casio watch confirms it. 

He’d be terrified that none of this is real, that they’re still down there with It. But the proof is in his body; his heart still pounding and his arms still aching from throwing down with a murderous clown. His hands are shaking from where he's still gripping the dirty bat he found in the cistern.It doesn’t make a sound when he drops it on the dead grass.

Richie feels something twist in his chest when Bill pulls them in for a hug, his long arms around all their shoulders; a reverse of when they all huddled over Bill while he cried into Georgie’s yellow raincoat. Eddie’s cast digs into his ribs.

“This is a real touching moment guys,” he says after a second. “But smelling like actual shit is kinda ruining it for me, y’know?”

“Beep, beep, Richie,” all six of them say in unison.

Then because Eddie has to get the last word, he adds, “That’s fucking disgusting, Richie.”

“Look who’s talking, you’re practically wearing Its vomit!”

“And with that, I’m going home to take a long shower,” Stan says dryly.

They say their goodbyes, and Richie gets another sense of deja vu, like this is just any other summer day. He barely holds back from shouting after them, _we did it right? We killed It?_

Then there’s just him and Eddie. He’s holding his fanny pack by the end of the belt in a tight-fisted grip. “‘Do you want a lift? I noticed you don’t have your stalwart steed with you.”

Eddie lifts his cast up, like he’s up next for show and tell. “It’s hard to ride a bike with one hand, let alone my non-dominant hand. Do you know the statistics for people who die from bike accidents rise every year?”

“All right, jeez. I didn’t ask for a report, Dr. K. Do you want a ride or not?”

After Eddie sits down and sets his feet on the rear axle, Richie stands up and starts pedaling. Eddie has his good arm around Richie’s waist. It feels warm, against the drying dampness of his shirt.

“Where are you going?” Eddie asks when he sees Richie angling his bike in the opposite direction of his house.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Richie waggles his eyebrows. “I’m meeting up with your mom in—”

“Forget I fucking asked,” Eddie huffs. 

“Cheerio, Eduardo!” Richie says in his British Voice, going around in circles and waving as Eddie walks towards his house.

“Shut up, RIchie! And put _both your hands on the handlebars_!”

“Don’t worry, I’m totally gonna handle my bar when I meet your mom!” He cackles when Eddie answers with the slam of his front door.

Aunt Marjorie likes to bring home blood oranges when she visits them for Christmas. The name _blood orange_ always made him think of a fruit that can do violence. He’d watch his mom peel the rind in precise petals, until it looked like a blooming flower. It always stained Richie’s fingers no matter how carefully he ate it.

The sky looks like a blood orange now, with just a little bit of that summer gold. 

The nearer he gets to the bridge, the heavier his chest feels until his breath is coming out in ragged gasps. He almost trips over his feet in his hurry to reach the wooden rail. Richie sees the dirt under his nails as he runs fingers over the initials. 

Something steadies in him as he feels the grooves of the letters under his skin. The divots were as real as the darkening sky above him. 

Before he knows it, Richie is retracing the initials with his pen knife. It’s as dark as his lengthening shadow afterwards. He runs his fingers over it one last time, his secret that isn’t a secret, and then he goes home.

**\--**

“How long are we gonna walk around these fucking woods, Staniel?” Richie whispers. His arms are aching from carrying the folding chairs. They’re lucky Bowers is locked up for good, because if he weren't, he’d be gunning after the two of them for using Mr. Uris’ _outdoor folding chairs_.

Stan gives him a look that says Richie isn’t whispering quietly enough. “Just a little further,” he murmurs, looking through his binoculars every few seconds.

Nicks and scratches wrap the barrel of Stan’s binoculars, and a long, wicked crack bisects the right lens. Stan had changed the strap after he bought it, but when they first saw it in the Secondhand Rose last summer, the leather cord was on the verge of snapping. Mr Dalton sold it to Stan for $25, a bargain he said with a wink, since it was an original Caldwell. Richie and Stan spent the whole summer mowing lawns and walking dogs, plus pooling both their savings, to snap up that “bargain deal”. In the end, Stan got his banged up binoculars, and Richie passed 7th grade Algebra the following school year, courtesy of Stan’s tutoring.

Stan stops walking. “Here is good.”

“Finally,” Richie mutters. He slumps down on one of the chairs as soon as he unfolds them.

Stan rolls his eyes and sits down on the other chair. “You didn’t have to come with me, you know,” he says. He takes his bird field guide from his backpack and primly places it on his lap. 

“I did when I heard swallows give the best head,” he leers, raising his hand for a high five he knew wouldn’t come.

Stan stares him down, his curls sweeping over his brow. He should look ridiculous, with the bandages still wrapped neatly around his forehead and jaw. “First of all, that’s anatomically impossible. Never say that to me again. Second, we’re not gonna see _any_ bird if you don’t shut up.”

Richie mimes zipping his mouth close and throwing away the key. The corner of Stan’s lips curl up, before he looks away from Richie and into his binoculars. 

Richie rummages through Stan’s backpack until he finds the Captain America comics he shoved inside before they left. He stretches his legs, curling his toes inside his sneakers, and starts reading. After a few seconds, Richie slides further down until his neck is supported by the backrest of the chair. 

The canopy of trees was thick enough that only small streams of sunlight peeked through the gaps. Stan had called the gaps crown shyness, when the trees were too shy to touch. 

That was last summer too—when it was just four of them, when Georgie was still alive. They’d been lying down on the grass after playing hide and seek in the woods. But after everything that happened, Stan hated coming to the Barrens. After everything, Stan only saw the poison ivy. 

That’s probably why Richie had said yes unthinkingly when Stan called him this morning, asking if Richie wanted to go birdwatching with him in the Barrens. Because the idea of Stan in the Barrens, aboveground, didn’t compute. Especially when they already have the clubhouse to go to.

“You okay, Trashmouth?” Stan doesn’t look up from his field guide.

“Thought you wanted me to shut up?”

“You haven’t turned a page since you started reading.”

“What are you, the comics police?”

Stan closes his book and folds his hands over the cover. His nails are clean and neatly trimmed. Richie wonders if Stan had trouble scrubbing off the dirt and the blood after they got out of Neibolt. 

“If you want to go back, we can,” Stan says quietly.

“And miss the chance to see hot birds?”

“Richie.”

“Come on, dude, why’d you ask me to come if you’re just gonna make us go home now?”

Stan looks at him. And for some reason, Richie remembers the bar mitzvah, when Stan had glanced at him for a split-second during his speech before looking back with steely eyes at the slack-jawed audience.

But Stan doesn’t answer. Just opens his book again and looks around the woods with his binoculars. Richie tries harder to focus on Captain America. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes; the shade from the trees keeps the worst of the heat at bay, but sweat still trickles down Richie’s neck and under his arms. At some point, he toes off his sneakers, his socked feet curling on the cool grass. 

Then he feels Stan’s fingers brushing against his arm. When he looks up, Stan raises a finger to his lips and passes Richie the binoculars.

At first Richie doesn’t see anything unusual, everything is just magnified. Then he hears a faint high-pitched whistle.

The long-necked bird that lands on the tree branch doesn’t look special. It is brown, with gray spots at the end of its wings. 

Then its chest puffs out, and suddenly Richie hears it _._ It’s not chirping, or whatever happy bird noises are called. It's sad, the sound rattling inside the bird's throat, and it echoes in the woods. It’s almost as big as Richie’s hand, and he wonders how it would feel in his palm -- if it’s as fluttery fragile as it looks.

After a while, the bird takes off, its wings whistling again as it leaves.

When Richie lowers the binoculars, Stan is sketching the bird along the margins of his book. "What was that?" He asks. 

"It's called a mourning dove," Stan answers. "Because of its call, you know."

"I'll say," Richie mutters. Of all the birds they'd find in the Barrens, of course it had to be a fucking _mourning dove_. 

“There used to be two of them,” Stan murmurs. He’s shading the tail feathers of the dove.

“And the one we saw got stood up? Harsh.”

Stan’s pen stills. “I wondered if they’d still be here. After, you know. It.” 

“It liked to snack on kids, Stanley,” Richie scoffs. “Adults, if It had to. Not mourning doves.”

“Do you remember when we went here with Bill and Eddie, near the canal? When we saw Ben?”

Richie shifts in his seat uneasily. It’s weird how he was just thinking about that, and now Stan suddenly brings it up. “Yeah, how could I forget? You and Eddie kept complaining about the gray water like fucking wussies.”

“It was quiet,” Stan continues. “It was so quiet, Richie. In a way the Barrens never was.”

“What?” Richie sits up. Stan still isn’t looking at him, he’s staring at a space that’s not where they are right now, and it scares Richie. “So you’re saying It...?”

“I’m saying, maybe the animals knew not to come here. While It was awake. Maybe,” Stan takes a deep breath. “Maybe they were scared too.”

It’s then that Richie notices how tight Stan’s fist is clenched around the pen, his knuckles white from the grip. He’s holding it differently now. Less like a pen, and more like the wrought iron spike he’d used to stab Pennywise-as-Judith.

So Stan is still fucking scared of the Barrens. But he braved the woods to see the proof of Its death anyway. Stubborn Stan, who can’t accept things from the get-go without cold logic and reality backing it up.

Stan’s hand had been under his, when they all held Its heart together. “The one time it’d have been good for us to have birdbrains,” Richie finally says in an authentic Richie Voice. “At least they flew the coop before the fox got into the henhouse.”

“That’s not how the saying goes,” he replies exasperatedly.

“But hey, this is good, right?” Richie shrugs, grinning. “Means It really is dead, then. If the birds are back.”

Stan nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. He stands up, slotting his things inside his backpack. “Come on, we should go.”

“We’re leaving?” Richie asks, disbelieving, even while he shoves his feet back into his sneakers. "We literally just saw one bird."

“I don’t want to miss Mrs. T’s apple pie.”

“Oh, that’s nice, that’s real nice, Staniel! Choosing my mom’s pie over our bro bonding in the woods? I always knew you were 14 going on 40.”

“When you call it ‘bro bonding in the woods’ yes, Richie, I’d choose Mrs. T’s pie over you, every time.”

Richie keeps his eyes on the folding chairs as he carries them in his arms. Gotta make sure there’s not a scratch on them. “Maybe we’ll see those hot sparrows next time, when we come back.”

Stan doesn’t answer for a long time. And Richie’s just about to take it back and say that never mind, birdwatching sucks, when Stan replies, “Yeah. That would be nice.”

Neither of them say anything else as they walk through the forest, their hands almost brushing every few steps. Richie doesn’t say anything about how Stan clears his throat a bunch of times. 

Next time they go, Richie thinks to himself, he’ll be the one to call Stan.

**\--**

As Bill walks towards the others in the water, Richie removes his glasses, his vision turning into a soft blur of jumbled colors. “Well, that was painful to watch,” he says casually, squinting up at the sky as he turns his glasses this way and that.

Since they’re sitting next to each other, Richie can see how Bev’s pointedly not looking at Bill. “Richie,” she says in a warning tone. Richie knows that tone. It’s usually the one that comes before Bev beep-beeps him. 

“Seriously, I had to remove my glasses just so I didn’t have to see Bill awkwardly shuffle away.”

“Beep, beep, Trashmouth.” And Richie smiles at how that sounds so much like a _fuck you_. 

Richie shoves his glasses back on and leans up on his elbows. The sweat slicking his bare back is instantly exposed to the humid air. “I’m just saying,” he says. 

He trails off when he hears Eddie’s voice, high and ringing above everyone else’s laughter. They’re playing chicken fight, Eddie on top of Mike’s shoulders and Stan on Ben’s. Bill is swimming in circles around them, refereeing and trash talking both teams at once. 

So far, it looks like Eddie’s winning. He has this feral, teeth-baring grin on his face, and Richie can see the muscles in his arms working as he grapples with Stan. He just got his cast off a few days ago, and the little dipshit is already taking full advantage.

“Just saying, what?” Bev prompts. 

In the background, Bev’s radio starts playing _I Don’t Want to Be Your Friend._

He looks back at her. Bev’s hair is wild and tousled, slightly frizzy from how it’s drying in the heat of August. She put her sundress back on after swimming, but her feet were still bare, her green-painted toes curled against the rocks. 

“You’re part of the Losers’ Club now,” Richie says, just as Cyndi starts singing _so if you're goin' then darlin' goodbye, goodbye now._ “For better or worse.”

Bev makes a small noise. She twists around to get her pack of cigarettes from her bag. “I think we’ve had all the worse we can handle,” she says, while lighting a stick.

Richie shrugs. “One of the perks of killing a killer clown, I guess,” he mutters. He makes grabby hands at Bev after she takes a hit, and Bev gives the cigarette to Richie without protest.

They pass the cigarette back and forth and watch the rest of the Losers splash in the water. Stan commented once that Richie got so quiet when he was smoking, and Bev had answered, laughing, _it’s because Richie’s still using his trashmouth, just not for talking._

The first time he bummed a cigarette from Bev, they were in the clubhouse, just the two of them. It was a few days after the last showdown with Pennywise, so Eddie was still under house arrest and Stan was still being fussed over by his parents. Ben’s mom and Mike’s grandfather weren’t as bad, but they were still pretty paranoid. Even Bill’s parents started paying more attention, keeping a closer eye on Bill after Henry Bowers was arrested for murdering his dad. The clown-induced fog in Derry had lifted, a little bit. For some parents, at least. 

He didn’t expect anyone in the clubhouse—it was a change of scenery from his room at least—and Bev looked just as surprised to see him. They shared a smile, amidst the veil of smoke wafting in the room, and Richie immediately asked if he could try a hit, because what is impulse control.

Richie glances up at her, and for the nth time, tries to look at her the way Bill and the other boys do. Her freckles are more prominent now from the sun, and her skin is glowing. There’s a look in her eyes that Richie understands, but can’t quite explain. Something like satisfaction and greediness wrapped in summer light.

After Eddie broke his arm, all he felt when he thought of Bev was guilt, so much guilt choking hin. When Mrs. K had looked at Bev and judged her, with those cutting eyes and sharp words, calling her a dirty girl who shouldn’t be touching her son, Richie’s first reaction had been a knee-buckling kind of relief that Mrs. K wasn’t looking at _him._

And Richie doesn’t really know when that guilt stopped trying to swallow him whole; some time between that first cigarette and when the realization hit that they both felt the same way about the Losers’ Club. 

When they finish the stick, Bev says without preamble: “My aunt’s thinking of moving to Portland. The two of us.”

After Bev’s neighbors found her dad on the floor and the blood-written words on her bedroom wall, Bev’s aunt from her mom’s side came to Derry with a vengeance to take Bev away. Papa Marsh’s hands were tied, since everything—from the blood on the wall to the barely healing bruises on Bev’s arms and wrists—pointed to him being an unfit parent. Bev’s been living with her aunt, who had the same red hair as she did, in a two-bedroom apartment just two blocks away from her old one.

Richie looks at her. “Do you want to?”

Bev shrugs, picking at the braided straps of her bracelets. “I don’t know,” she says to her knees. “Sometimes.”

Richie bites down on the first ten ugly things on the tip of his tongue. It tastes like copper and fear. “If you do, we should TP your old apartment before you leave, paint the whole building fucking red,” Richie replies.

“Getting your metaphors mixed again, Trashmouth,” Bev says, her shoulders shaking from laughter.

“Fuck metaphors, it can’t contain my _multitudes_.”

“You’ve been reading Eddie’s crosswords again, haven’t you,” she states dryly. 

“I find it gives a cheeky tilt to the trashmouth, wouldn’t you say, darling?” Richie says in his British Voice. “Adds a little bit of spice, hmm?”

Bev laughs and kicks his shoulder gently with her foot. “You’re impossible,” she says.

Richie closes his eyes, ignoring the sting behind his eyelids and the strangled emotion stuck in his throat. He squeezes her ankle. “For better or worse, Molly Ringwald,” he says, as a reply and a reminder. 

“Thanks, Trashmouth,” she says softly.

He winks at her exaggeratedly. He doesn’t want her to leave, he doesn’t want it so much that it’s an actual ache at the back of his throat. But fuck if he’s gonna be the one to ask her to stay in _Derry_ and put that winter fire out.

“Are you guys smoking again?” Eddie demands, his voice getting louder with each word as the five of them wade out of the water. “Seriously, have you ever heard of emphysema and, and _chronic obstructive pulmonary disease_?”

Richie takes another stick from the pack and lights it, just to be contrary. “Dunno, Dr. K, sounds like you’re just blowing smoke up our asses.”

“Okay, first of all, that’s not how you use that metaphor,” he says, his brows coming down into a thunderous furrow. “Second, _stop fucking smoking you dickwad_ , you know my mom’s gonna smell it on my clothes the second I step foot inside the house!”

Richie refrains from saying that it’s a good thing Eddie isn’t wearing anything except his briefs, then. It’s not gonna sound right. He ignores Bev’s raised eyebrow when he stubs out the cigarette on the ground without another word.

“What have you guys been talking about?” Mike says curiously as they put on their clothes. 

“Looked like you were having a pretty intense heart-to-heart,” Stan adds as he pats his hair down with a towel. 

Bill and Ben try to hide it, but it’s hilarious the way the two of them lean forward like they’re about to hear juicy gossip.

“We’ve been trying to settle once and for all who’s got the biggest dick in the Losers’ Club, Mikey,” Richie says casually.

Stan sighs heavily while Eddie sputters in the background. Mike’s shaking his head and Ben genuinely looks worried that Richie and Bev have been rating everyone’s dick size.

“B-beep, beep, Richie,” Bill says.

“Obviously, I won,” Bev continues just as casually. 

“Yowza, Molly Ringwald gets off a good one!” Richie slaps his thigh. 

“Shut up, Richie,” all six of them say and, as usual, Richie ignores them and continues to talk all the way home.

If he and Bev hug each other tighter than they usually do when they say goodbye, well. Neither of them say anything.

**\--**

Richie didn’t used to believe in magic or fate, or anything like that. He still remembered the murderous look Bill had given him when he’d almost let it slip with Georgie that _what, no Santa Claus doesn’t fucking exist._ But after Pennywise, he’s not so sure.

At least, it doesn’t seem to be a coincidence that Richie’s got Ben all to himself now in the clubhouse, when he’s been wanting to ask Ben something in private.

Mike’s out of town with his grandfather doing deliveries, Stan’s having “Me Time” (to which Richie had said _tickling your pickle doesn’t take all fucking day, Stanley_ ; to which Stan replied by hanging up the phone on him); Bill is having another random Parents-Smother-Their-Kid day and Bev’s probably avoiding them all in the meantime while she waits for her not-Thing with Bill to blow over. He’s not sure where Eddie is. Richie hasn’t talked to him in a while.

“Hey, Benjamin, what do you call a sexy tree,” Richie says, swinging the hammock back and forth with his foot on the floor.

“What,” Ben asks, in that half-flat and half-curious tone. Like he’s tired of Richie’s bullshit, but not necessarily tired of Richie himself. He doesn’t even pause from hammering the pillar near the trapdoor.

He waggles his eyebrows even though Ben’s facing away from him. “Hardwood!” Richie cackles.

Ben sighs out a small laugh. “Richie, that’s the sixth hardwood joke you’ve made today,” he says, shaking his head. “Don’t you have other material?”

“Benny, I can go all night long with my hardwood,” Richie says in a drawling Voice.

“And then have chafing all morning long the following day, most likely,” Ben says, sounding amused.

Richie almost falls off the hammock. Ben’s one of the more quiet ones in the group, but he’s got a wicked sense of humour. Sort of the same as Stan’s, but less pointy. “Fuck, Ben, that’s hilarious, I’m stealing that,” Richie gasps out, still laughing.

Ben is smiling when he glances back at Richie. “Only you’d think chafing would be funny, Richie.”

“Sometimes it’s in the delivery, y’know? And boy, did you deliver, Benny.”

“Coming from you, I’m not sure if that’s good or not.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, Ben’s hammer the only sound in the clubhouse. He’s not wearing the shower cap Stan gave them, and Richie wonders if Ben only puts it on so he doesn’t hurt Stan’s feelings.

The clubhouse isn’t as bad as when they first discovered it two months ago, but there’s still a lot of wood dust —Eddie freaks out about dust mites periodically. But it’s definitely more homey now, and Richie likes how lived in it looks with all their stuff. 

Richie and Ben have posted some of their favorite band posters along the walls. And Mike had brought down one of his dead grandmother’s bedside drawers, and the mahogany surface is stacked with Stan’s field guides and Mike’s secondhand history books. Inside the drawers are Bill’s paperbacks and Bev’s other stolen pack of cigarettes. They brought down stools to sit on, but now they use it to set down Bev’s old radio and Eddie’s first aid kit. Richie’s comics are splayed out under the hammock, and it always drives Eddie crazy when he trips over them.

“Hey, Ben, so I have a question,” Richie asks casually, keeping his wide-legged sprawl on the hammock which he has all to himself.

Ben turns to face him. “Is everything okay?” He asks, his eyes wide with concern.

“What? Yeah, everything is—why are you asking me that?”

“Nothing, it’s just,” Ben shakes his head, smiling a little. “Anyway, what did you want to ask?”

It feels weird now, with Ben staring at him. “Do you,” Richie pokes his finger through the open buttonhole of his shirt. “Do you remember when we were in the cistern.”

“Yeah,” Ben says, sitting down on the ladder step, his elbows on his knees. “I do.”

“Yeah, of course! Pretty hard to forget that we killed a clown in the sewers,” Richie laughs and Ben just stares at him, patiently waiting for Richie to finish. “Who forgets that, right?”

“Right,” Ben murmurs, and Richie doesn’t know how he _does that_ , how Ben just looks straight at a person without flinching.

“So I was wondering,” Richie continues. He’s crumpling the hem of his shirt in his fists now. He doesn’t remember doing that. “I mean, I know there’s a lot of elephants in the clubhouse that we’re all just walking around. But since it’s just the two of us, I was wondering. How did you know that kissing Bev would work?” He asks in one breath.

“Oh,” Ben says. Then he blushes, turning red as the tropical flowers on Richie’s shirt. “Um. I don’t know, I didn’t really know if it would work. I just… I _hoped_ it would. You know, like in Sleeping Beauty.” 

Richie watched that movie on the television during a sleepover at Stan’s house, back when it was just the four of them. Richie kept making fun of how the horse had more of a personality than prince charming did while Eddie kept commenting on the hazards of living in the woods. Stan and Bill kept telling them both to shut up.

True love’s kiss. And Richie feels something like sympathy swell in his chest as he watches Ben rub the back of his head. 

“And I don’t know if it’s an elephant in the room,” Ben adds, laughing sheepishly. “I talked to Bev about it, after. And, um. Apologized for kissing her without permission, I guess.”

Now Richie feels like a shit for bringing it up. “Hey, Ben,” he starts awkwardly. “I’m sorry if--”

Ben shakes his head. “It’s fine, Richie,” he says. Ben finally drops his gaze and starts tossing his hammer back and forth. Richie would make a joke about that, but he figures he’s done enough emotional damage on Ben that he should shut up. 

“Being with you guys, being part of the Losers,” Ben says, still not looking at him. “That’s bigger than anything I’ve ever had. And that’s enough, I think.”

“Fuck yeah,” Richie says. Then he adds in his best Vito Corleone Voice, “And I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse, Benny boy.”

Ben raises both eyebrows. “Yeah?” he asks, his lips twitching.“You gonna put a severed horse head on my bed, Trashmouth?”

“No, no, Benny,” he says, still in the same Voice. “Even better: you’re part of _la famiglia_ now. And you will always be part of the Losers’ Club, this I promise you.”

Ben rubs his eyes with one fist, then after a second, he wipes his nose with the back of his hand. “Sorry,” he says, his voice clogged. “The dust, I think. Allergies.”

“Best go back to work then, Benjamin, chop chop,” Richie replies, clapping his hands. “Drop the gun, take the cannoli.”

Ben laughs and stands up. “Whatever you say, Trashmouth,” he answers, and goes back to work.

“Finally, someone acknowledges my greatness,” Richie sighs. “This is why you’re my favorite.”

“Sure,” Ben agrees amiably, his rhythm not even faltering. “Did you want to ask me anything else, or was that it?”

Ben doesn’t look at him as he says that last part. It’s probably why Richie just straight up blurts out, “Do you still like her?”

“Yeah,” Ben says without missing a beat. 

“Does it,” the words are all twisted on Richie’s tongue. “I mean. How do you deal with it?”

Ben, bless him, doesn’t ask why Richie is asking. “It’s not like in the movies, Richie,” Ben says. “It sucks, yeah. But having a stupid unrequited crush is better than having no friends, you know?”

At that, Richie gets up from the hammock and squeezes his arms around Ben’s shoulders. “Aw, Benjamin,” he coos. “You fucking sap.”

“Richie!” 

“You’re right, you don’t seem like the Duckie type, anyway,” Richie continues, pinching Ben’s cheek. “Too dramatic.”

“Yeah, I’ll leave the dramatic comic relief to you, Trashmouth,” Ben laughs. 

Richie gasps. “You’re no longer my favorite, Benny! You hear me, you’re dead to me!” 

When they crash into the ladder and almost undo all of Ben’s hard work, Richie goes back to the hammock, and Ben goes back to fixing the pillar and pretending he’s not laughing at Richie’s jokes.

\--

When he was a little kid, Richie and his parents used to go on picnics in Bassey Park every summer. The picnic dates tapered off when his dad’s dentist clinic started taking off, until it stopped all together. His mom had her book club and Richie had the Losers.

The park is busy, the way it’s always busy during summer. The grass is prickly under Richie’s bare legs and hands. And the sun feels like it’s shooting a laser straight into his skin. He’ll probably have dorky tan lines where his sleeves end. Their backs are turned against Paul Bunyan’s statue, and Richie is both very okay and not okay about that.

He tosses Bill another Hostess pudding pie and laughs when it hits him straight on the forehead. “Gives a whole new meaning to pie in the face, eh, Billiam?”

Bill just looks at him before ripping the wrapper open, and Stan doesn’t even glance up from his book. He’s even eating it _sadly,_ the schmuck. Richie turns to Eddie to stare at him and convey with his eyes how this was such a bad idea, but Eddie’s already frowning at Bill.

When Stan called him this morning and told him that Eddie wants the four of them to meet in Bassey Park and hold an intervention for Bill, Richie didn’t know what to expect. At first he thought it was about Bev. Stan thought so too, because when Richie had whined about Bill being a big boy who can handle his problems, Stan had just replied, maybe not his girl problems. 

But then he saw Bill, like Richie was only seeing him now for the first time this summer, and he’s not sure anymore. There’s something familiar in Bill’s eyes, and the dark circles underneath, that Richie doesn’t want to examine too deeply.

“Okay,” Richie throws his hands up. “Since it looks like no one’s gonna say anything until the end of time, I’m starting this shebang.”

At this, Stan finally looks up. And he gets double the glare because Eddie turns his frown to him too. “Richie...” Stan says warningly.

“W-what do you m-mean?” Bill asks around a mouthful of pudding pie.

“I mean,” Richie says slowly. “There is something clearly wrong with you. I thought Eddie was being dramatic, but now I think he didn’t warn us enough about the cloud of doom shrouded over you. So, spill, Bill.”

“Richie, you fucking asshole,” Eddie hisses while Stan sighs.

Bill doesn’t even deny it, and it’s like seeing a building collapse. His head bends low, his shoulders slump, his arms and hands go limp and the pie drops to the ground without a sound.

“It’s my p-parents,” he answers without lifting his head.

Richie suddenly feels a flash of fear. “What, are you leaving Derry too?”

“What do you mean ‘too’?” Eddie asks sharply. 

“No,” Bill answers Richie. “B-but with how they’ve b-been acting, I wouldn’t be surprised if we d-did.”

“How have they been acting, Bill?” Stan asks. He’s set his book aside now, his bookmark tucked neatly between the pages.

“Y-you know how the adults have b-been more… a-aware, like they c-care more,” Bill says. 

“Yeah,” Eddie says.He’d crouched nearer Bill, his brown eyes filled with concern. “Mike said it was like the ‘It-induced fog’ lifted.”

Bill lets out a small laugh. “Yeah,” he echoes. “It’s b-been like that for my p-parents, b-but t-ten times worse.”

Richie thinks of his own empty house, and how nothing has changed in that aspect, post-It. “Wait, so this is about how it sucks that… your parents care more?” Richie asks, his voice rising with each word. “Am I getting this right?”

Eddie shoots up from where he’s kneeling, his hands fisted. “Why do you always have to be an asshole?” Eddie yells back at him. 

Stan goes in the middle, his hands out. “Guys—”

“Look, I’m just telling it how it is!” Richie gestures at Bill. “A few weeks ago, Bill was moping about how his parents cared more about Georgie than him. _Now_ he’s moping about his parents caring more about him?”

“I never should have asked Stan to fucking call you!”

“You know I’m right, dipshit!”

“He is,” Bill interrupts, just as Eddie takes a deep breath mid-tirade. “Richie’s right. I don’t know w-what I… M-maybe this isn’t what I expected after w-we k-killed It, is all.”

Stan shoots Richie a look that clearly says shut up. “What do you mean, Bill?”

Bill sighs, the sound wet and shaky with tears. “I don’t know,” he says again. “I guess, I was hoping they’d stop picking one kid at a time to care about.”

Stan and Eddie go to flank Bill, and Richie feels like the pudding pie on the grass: goopy, and useless, and dirty.

When they were in the cistern, Richie was more terrified of It telling the Losers about his _dirty little secret_ than anything else. Swinging the bat was less about saving Bill and more about keeping It from exposing Richie’s guts in the shitty water.

“Fuck,” Richie mutters. He ignores the looks Bill’s designated bodyguards give him and knee-walks closer to where Bill is hunched into himself. “‘m sorry.”

Bill glances up at him, his blue eyes clear despite the tears. “It’s fine, Richie. This whole summer, I’ve b-been so s-selfish,” he says, like he’s confessing a sin.

“No, you haven’t,” Richie says forcefully. “If it weren’t for you and Bev, that fucking clown would still be alive, and It’d be terrorizing a whole new group of Derry kids 27 years from now.”

“Can’t believe I’m saying this,” Stan says. “But Richie’s right.”

They all laugh softly and then Eddie speaks. “What did they do, Bill.”

Richie doesn’t know if it’s the look in Eddie’s eyes, or the way Eddie asked the question, or the possibility that Bill just wanted to talk about it and was waiting for someone to ask. But Bill finally spills.

He talks about his parents packing up Georgie’s room and donating most of his stuff without telling Bill. His dad uses the room as an office now. His mom is playing the piano again, but there are songs she won’t do, not even when Bill asks. And even now, they still won’t mention Georgie’s name in the house, so sometimes Bill wants to yell it, just to remind them all that Georgie existed, and Georgie lived, and Georgie died, and Georgie is _still_ missed--

It’s dusk when Bill covers his face with his hands, all of their arms wrapped tight around his shaking shoulders. 

\--

When Richie’s eyes open, he’s clutching his chest like he always does when he wakes from dreams like this. He reminds himself, like he always does, that it’s his heart he can feel under his hand.

The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway is loud. Louder than the muffled voices outside the family room, even. It’s still dark, from what Richie can see.

It’s been a while since they were all together, and it’s the first sleepover they’ve ever had. It’s a good idea, Stan said a few days after Bill’s breakdown, for all of them to be together again.

Richie thought so too. He honestly thought that the nightmares would stop, at least for a night, with all the Losers beside him.

He sits up as carefully as possible. Beside him, Stan sleeps like an old person, on his back with his hands over his chest. On Stan’s left, in the farther edge of their pushed-together sleeping bags, Eddie is a blurred lump of blankets.

Richie grabs his glasses from under the pillow and almost hits Bev’s dangling arm from the couch. He stands up, and tiptoes around Bill and Mike on the other side.

He makes his way to the kitchen and makes himself comfortable. Mike looked so squirmy and shy while he was telling them where everything can be found. Richie couldn’t resist pinching his cheeks, and Mike had only rolled his eyes good-naturedly while everyone else told him to stop embarrassing Mike. 

He gets a mug from the cupboard and the hot chocolate mix in one of the shelves. Mike didn’t tell them where they kept their kettles, so Richie spends some time looking around for it. After he finds it, he boils a pot of water and waits. 

His mom used to make him hot chocolate when he was younger. He’d wake her up after a nightmare, and she’d take him to the kitchen. She’d hug him to her waist with one arm, while she stirred the pot of melted chocolate bars with the other. Then she’d add a little cold milk to both their cups, and they’d drink in the quiet until Richie got sleepy again.

She still buys bars of chocolate from the grocery. But they eat those after dinner now, dessert instead of comfort.

“Hey, Richie,” Mike greets him sleepily as Richie drinks. “You should’ve woken me up.”

“And wake you from your beauty sleep?” Richie snorts. “We literally stayed up the whole night, Homeschool, we need all the rest we can get.” 

Mike gets a cup for himself and pours the leftover hot water. “So why aren’t you?” He asks reasonably. When Richie just takes another scalding sip, Mike adds, “I’m usually up by this time, so I’m good.”

“Ah yes, farmers woken by the cock’s call,” Richie says, enunciating the letter c with satisfaction.

Mike raises both eyebrows. “We don’t have roosters on the farm, Richie.”

“No, yeah, I meant the other kind of cock,” Richie gestures with his hands for emphasis and has the pleasure of seeing Mike blush. 

“Beep, beep,” Mike tells him and drinks his hot chocolate with dignity.

Richie snorts. “Seriously, though, do you have chores? Am I keeping you from mucking the stalls or what?”

Mike doesn’t even bother correcting him. “My grandpa let me off the hook this morning,” he says, kind of shyly. “Since, you know, I have friends in the house. But I’m back to work this afternoon, after you guys leave.”

Richie realizes that this is probably the first time Mike’s ever had friends over, and he feels a swooping thing in his chest. Feels something like loneliness. “Cool,” Richie says. “Can we get a tour after breakfast?”

“Sure,” Mike says easily, his smile lighting up his whole face. 

They stop talking when some of the farmworkers come in through the back door. They greet Mike with a murmured good morning and Richie with a polite nod. 

When they leave with refilled thermoses of coffee, Mike looks back at Richie. “Do you usually wake up this early too?” Mike’s eyes are warm and guileless. “Always figured other kids… well, I wasn’t sure how true the movies were.”

“Oh yeah, we’re total fucking weirdos, Mikey,” Richie curls his hands around his half-empty cup. “Is why we’ve got the Losers’ Club.”

“They’re not awake yet, though,” Mike points out with a small grin.

“Well, they’re neither farmers or plagued with nightmares,” Richie quips back.

It’s only in the pause of the moment that Richie realizes what he’s said. The _oh, shit_ he’s not saying probably makes it to his face because Mike says, “Hey, Richie… It’s okay.”

Before Richie can wave his words away, Mike adds, “I get them too, sometimes.”

“Oh.” For once, Richie doesn’t know what to say. He can barely handle his own nightmares, let alone someone else’s.

Mike looks down, smiling crookedly. “It hasn’t been as bad but,” he shrugs. “I know this sleepover is for Bill, but I’m glad. That you guys are here.”

“Hey,” Richie says sharply until Mike glances up. “This might’ve been about Billiam at first, but it’s not just for him, okay? I think... Maybe everyone needed this.”

“Yeah,” Mike sighs. 

“What do you dream about?” Richie asks, biting the inside of his lip.

Mike stirs his teaspoon in his mug, and Richie can hear it clanging inside. It must be half-empty too. “It starts out with my parents trapped in the house,” Mike finally says, still staring into his cup. “But when I open the door to get them, it leads to the cistern.

“And I can hear all of your voices echoing in the tunnels, calling for help like my parents were. But I can’t find any of you. And I run through the sewers looking for you guys until I wake up.”

“Fuck,” Richie says, wiping a hand over his mouth. “That’s horrible, Mike, I’m sorry.”

Mike looks up at him, his expression thoughtful. “While I’m in the dream, I’m scared as hell,” Mike admits. “But when I wake up, I… get over it, I guess. Because I know it’s not real.”

“That’s good,” Richie says, nodding. If only it were like that for him.

“How about you, Richie,” Mike says softly. The kind and open look in his eyes hasn’t flickered once. “What do you dream about?”

It’s light now, the sun streaming in butter-soft through the windows and over the dining table where they sit. He can hear the sheep bleating while the workers talk outside.

It feels strange to speak about it now, when Richie knows that this is a conversation made for the dark. But being here with Mike—maybe this is better. So Richie opens his mouth, and speaks.

Pennywise is small, they’ve made It small as a newborn with their rage and their words, and Its heart is an echoing beat in the cistern. They all look at each other and each stretch a hand to rip Its heart out. It feels slimy and viscous as the gray water they waded through. All of them, It and the Losers, cry with a piercing yell as they crush Its heart in their hands. 

Richie watches It fade into dust and It smiles at him before Its face finally turns to ash too.

That’s when memory becomes nightmare.

They walk out of the cistern, but there’s a ringing in Richie’s ears. Or no, a steady, rhythmic beat—like drums but more quiet. He hears it all the way up Neibolt House while they climb back to the surface, and when he bikes back home, and when he gets in the shower, and when he dresses for bed.

He’s in bed when he feels this fluttery fragile thing in his hand. Then he looks down and he sees Its blackened heart, still beating. And he can’t pull it off of his hand, no matter what he fucking does. It’s just as viscous and warm as when he first touched It. But it’s like, it’s connected to Richie’s skin now. The scene shifts seamlessly, like dreams do, and all the other Losers are there. They can help, they say, forming a semi-circle around him in the dark of his room. But when Eddie. He. Eddie steps forward, and that’s when It says—

Richie only realizes he’s stopped talking when he tastes the cotton of Mike’s shirt in his mouth. His glasses are digging into his skin from where his face is pressed against Mike’s shoulder. He doesn’t remember Mike coming forward to hug him, or when he started crying like a baby, but here they are. 

“I know it’s not real,” Richie whispers. He hates how his voice breaks. “So why do I fucking feel this way?”

“Maybe because you’ve always been scared of this,” Mike says quietly. “It’s just that it has shape now.”

Mike doesn’t let go of him, but he loosens his hold until Richie can reach up and wipe at his face. “We can go back to the family room after I wash our mugs, if you want?” Mike offers.

Richie almost kisses him in gratitude. “It’s okay, I’ll wash mine,” he says.

When they go back to the room, everyone is sitting up and talking quietly.

“Where have you guys been?” Bev asks. Her hair is sticking up on the top of her head.

“Yeah, how long have you both been up?” Stan asks, looking at Richie curiously. He knows Richie doesn’t wake up until ten in the morning, at the earliest.

Richie and Mike glance at each other. “Sheep woke us up, so Richie and I had some hot chocolate,” Mike answers after a second.

“Oh, man, that sounds nice,” Ben sounds wistful. 

“What, just you two?” Eddie asks, looking back and forth at them.

“Yeah, Mike,” Bill asks, grinning. “Why d-does Trashmouth g-get special treatment?”

Mike shrugs, smiling back. “Early bird gets the worm,” he says. “Breakfast is on the table, whenever you guys are ready.”

When the five of them race for the bathroom, Richie turns to Mike, who’s already folding all the blankets. “Thanks,” Richie says. 

Mike stacks the blankets on the couch and turns to him. “Hey, Losers stick together, right?”

Even from across the hallway, Richie can hear Eddie nagging everyone to brush their teeth at a 45-degree angle towards the gum line in circular motions for two minutes, else they’ll get plaque and gum disease. 

“Yeah,” Richie says. “We do.”

\--

“When you said you wanted to talk, I figured it’d be somewhere more private,” Eddie says, while pushing down the kickstand of his bike. 

Richie parks his own bike parallel to the bridge rail. “I wanted it to be a public space, so I have witnesses,” Richie returns, even though witnesses were the last thing he wanted.

“If I wanted to kill you, I’d have done it by now,” Eddie says, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You off a clown once,” Richie mutters, shaking his head.

“You gonna tell me why you brought us here or what?”

He traces his fingers over the letters on the wood. Someone had carved _josh + amy_ , but it’s been covered by newer initials.Richie wonders what will happen when the bridge rails run out of space. If people will stop carving their initials or if they’ll just keep writing over old ones.

“I’m sorry we haven’t hung out as much this summer,” Richie starts. He tries not to grimace at how rehearsed the words sound. “I think the thing with It fucked me up more than I realized, y’know? It was just a lot to deal with.”

Eddie’s eyes are brown too, like Mike’s. He always thought that Eddie’s were coffee-dark with just a splash of cream, like how Richie sees his dad make it. But the way Eddie stares up at him now makes Richie uneasy, even though he can admit that he used to like having Eddie’s attention on him. 

Maybe it’s different when Richie knows Eddie’s looking at him with judgment.

“Okay,” Eddie says.

“‘Okay’?” Richie echoes. “That’s all you have to say, really?”

“What do you want me to say?” Eddie says, the calm of his expression ripples with a scowl. “We’re all fucked up by the clown, Richie, it wasn’t just you.”

Richie can literally feel the flush creep up his neck and his cheeks. “Yeah, I know that,” he says as patiently as he can. “That’s why I’m trying to apologize, okay?”

Eddie sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, you’re sorry we don’t hang out as much,” he repeats flatly. “Are you only sorry because you’re closer to the other Losers now?”

“No, of course not!” Richie says. “Come on, Eds.”

Eddie takes a deep breath, and Richie braces himself. “Just because we don’t hang out anymore, doesn’t mean I still can’t smell your bullshit a mile away, Trashmouth,” Eddie explodes predictably. “You say you’re sorry, meanwhile you’ve been going around Derry being the bestest buds with everyone else in the group?”

“It’s not fucking intentional!” Richie waves his hands. “It was just, it was so fucking hard, being around you, and--”

“It’s hard to _be around me_ ,” Eddie echoes incredulously, his voice wavering. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Because of how I feel about you!”

“What are you _talking about_?”

Richie takes Eddie’s wrist and drags him to the rail. “This!” Richie shouts, pointing to the initials. “This is how I feel about you! I didn’t want… I didn’t want to want this, and I’ve been so… You’re my best friend, Eds. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Eddie doesn't look away from Richie the entire time he speaks, even while he's jabbing a finger at the letters carved into the wood. Richie’s seen and catalogued all of Eddie’s expressions, or he thought he has. But with how Eddie is looking at him now with those brown eyes, Richie’s not sure what he’s thinking at all.

It’s late in the afternoon so more people are walking in and out of Bassey Park through the bridge. And Richie tries to tune them out, but their voices are louder than even the growing silence between him and Eddie.

Richie rubs his eyes under his glasses. His lashes are wet and clumped together. “Can you please say something,” he begs.

At that, Eddie finally looks down at where Richie’s other hand is still splayed over their initials.

“My mom wants us to leave Derry,” Eddie says.

In the cistern, Richie remembers jumping on Its back at one point and trying to choke it with the poker. He’d been filled with so much adrenaline, barely hearing anything except the ringing in his ears and pounding in his chest. But It had been stronger of course, had thrown him with barely a flick of Its arm. 

Richie feels the same way now, like he’s been thrown by Its arm into the ground. He feels the blow to his temples, his chest, his nerveless fingers. It leaves him breathless with pain.

“Eddie,” Richie hates how he sounds so plaintive and childlike. He didn’t expect anything for how this all turns out, but it’s not supposed to be _this_. “Eds, you can’t.”

Eddie shakes his head once, a sharp turn of his head. “The Derry fog lifted for her too, you know,” he says, looking older and younger at once with the shine in his eyes and the clench of his jaw. “And she’s been making noise about leaving since… well, since after I yelled at her about the fucking gazebos.”

Richie wants to get on his bike and leave and just stay in his bed forever. “Do the others know?” He asks.

“Talked about it with Bev,” Eddie says. “Since she might be leaving too. Bill and Stan guessed, after the intervention. I haven’t told Ben or Mike, but they probably suspect.”

Richie gets what Eddie’s not saying in that enumeration: Richie’s been a class-A, self-absorbed idiot. He brings up his shaking hands to his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“When could I?” Eddie doesn’t even sound accusing. Just like he genuinely wants to know. “While you were in the woods with Stan? During your smoke breaks with Bev? After you and Mike drink hot chocolate? Richie, you’ve been avoiding me ever since we killed It, I didn’t even know if you wanted us to be friends anymore.”

Richie opens his mouth and tries to talk. He does this a few more times until the tightness in his chest isn’t as constricting. “Eds, I’m sorry,” Richie finally says, wiping his face one last time before dropping his hands. “I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with this shit, and I’m sorry for being an asshole.”

Eddie sniffs and turns to face the river. “I don’t know how to convince her to stay,” he says, faraway and lost. Richie wants so badly to hug him. But he doesn’t trust himself to hold Eddie the way he deserves. “Is it weird, I feel like I’d be the one left behind if we do end up leaving.”

Richie steps forward until they’re standing side by side, shoulder to shoulder. “No. It’s not weird.” 

The river rushes on below them, the water flowing in continuous, small waves. Beside him, Eddie’s fists unclench until his pinky nearly touches Richie’s on the rail.

“Have you told anyone?” Eddie asks, his eyes downcast and fingers running over the letters.

“No,” Richie shakes his head. “But... I wouldn’t be surprised if they know.”

He looks up at that, and now this—this is an Eddie Kaspbrak expression Richie knows. “I’m sorry, too,” Eddie says fiercely and Richie can’t look away. “I’m sorry you’ve been alone with this. But there is nothing wrong with you, okay, Richie?”

This is something more along the lines of what Richie had been not-expecting, maybe even not-hoping for. But even then, it makes his eyes burn and his throat ache. “Eds, come on,” Richie tries to laugh it off.

“Remember when my mom said she heard someone got AIDS from touching a dirty pole in New York,” Eddie says, his eyes searing through Richie.

Richie’s shoulders relax. This is familiar ground. “Yeah, she told me in bed after we--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie interrupts pleasantly. “Anyway, I looked it up in the library and you can’t get AIDS like that. Obviously.”

“You—wait, what exactly did you look up in the library?”

“My point is,” Eddie presses on, his chin up, his shoulders set back. Richie wants to look at him forever. “It’s not true, there’s a lot my mother said that isn't true. And I’m tired of being scared, Richie. Aren’t you?”

This has veered so far from what Richie was expecting that his head is circling. “What are you saying,” he says, worrying the inside of his lip.

Eddie studies him. Richie doesn’t know what Eddie sees, but it makes him face the water again. “I don’t know,” Eddie admits quietly, his words almost drowned out by the river. 

“You know I can’t be—” Richie can’t even say the fucking word. “Not here in Derry.”

“Maybe,” Eddie allows. “But it shouldn’t have to be a dirty secret.”

Richie stares at his profile. “You’re so brave, you know that?” he finally says.

“If I were brave, I’d be able to give you an answer,” Eddie mutters, shoulders hunching up. “As it is—do you know I still use my inhaler? I know I don’t need it but… Jeez, Richie, I can barely keep my head above the water as it is.”

Richie shakes his head. “You don’t need to give me an answer,” he says, and it’s probably the most honest thing he’s said all day.

“Richie—”

“How’s this,” Richie starts, smiling at him. “If you’re okay with the gay, I promise I’ll try harder to pull you abovewater.”

Eddie’s breath hitches once. Then twice. Then: “Richie,” is all he chokes out before turning away and wiping his face with his forearm.

“Eds, you’re my best friend,” Richie says softly, placing a hand on his shoulder tentatively. 

Eddie doesn’t answer, just keeps trying to quiet his breath into submission. But he doesn’t pull away from Richie either.

By the time he’s ready to face Richie again, the sky is that beautiful blood orange. And the light loves Eddie—it turned strands of his hair burnt gold, made his eyes brighter, his skin warm and lit with all that fire he barely contains.

For a split-second Richie panics that this isn’t real, that time has just started ticking again, or that this is another dream-turned-nightmare. And Richie almost looks to check if their initials are still where he carved them.

But then Eddie smiles up at him, even while his brows are furrowed. “Of course I’m your best friend, dickwad,” he says after forever has passed. 

They race against each other down Mile Hill and all the way back to Richie’s house. Richie can barely catch his breath from trash talking and pedaling, his legs aching with the effort. Eddie keeps up with him, somehow managing to cuss, laugh, and gasp for breath at the same time.

Richie leans forward and pushes harder, the wind cool against his face.

\--

Richard Tozier  
Writing Exercise #4  
Summer Experience Essay  
September 29, 1989  


**The Losers’ Club**

In the newest _Captain America_ comics, specifically Issue #351, the role of Captain America is transferred from John Walker to Steve Rogers, the original bearer of the position. After several incidents, Steve finds out that S.H.I.E.L.D has disbanded and that Nick Fury is (allegedly) a traitor. There’s a panel where he acknowledges how much work he has to do to get the Avengers back on their feet. And that’s how my summer has been: a time to reexamine life in Derry and a time to be with my friends.

Maybe this is a cliche answer, but cliches become so for a reason. That’s what Ms. Keaton says, at least. Last year’s surge of missing kids and teenagers, all of whom we grew up with and knew in some way, has caused life-altering effects on everyone. Some of those effects we are only becoming aware of now. And I’m lucky because even when I was reliving my worst fears in my nightmares, there’s always at least one of my friends on the other side.

They don’t say it in so many words, but they remind me to get back on my feet and walk in the light, even if it’s hard work. For a while, it was work I didn’t want to do because it hurt too much. But my best friend Eddie Kaspbrak is teaching me how to be brave. It’s not a one-time thing, though. It’s not like in the movies where you slay the dragon and live happily ever after forever. Being brave is looking outside of myself. It’s calling a friend and offering to birdwatch with them in the Barrens. It’s supporting them when they want to find a better life outside Derry even if you yourself don't want them to leave. It’s pulling someone out of the water when they’re feeling overwhelmed and overcome.

My friends and I call our group the Losers’ Club. I don’t think I’m being dramatic when I say that we’re outcasts. And it’s not an exaggeration that we’ve been called losers and worse at least 300 times by at least 300 people in school. But the word “loser” doesn’t have the same meaning to me now as it did before. When I think of Loser, I think of William Denbrough, Beverly Marsh, Ben Hanscom, Michael Hanlon, Stanley Uris, and Edward Kaspbrak. When I think of Loser, I think of this band of heroes, and how they continue to teach me how to be brave.

_[written in Ms. Keaton’s neat script]: Richie, this was a very heartwarming essay and I am very honored to have read this. Your introduction was engaging and personal and your conclusion circled back to it nicely. There’s a clear theme of bravery and what the word means to you and your friends. You thoughtfully touched upon local events that, as you’ve mentioned, continue to affect us even to this day. I’m glad that you found such good friends to weather these storms. This piece is an A+_

_P.S. Should any of your schoolmates continue to harass you or the other Losers, let me know and I will assist however I can._


End file.
